The Gatsby Acquaintance
by mysweetone
Summary: Canon/AU. 1922: Guests mingle and mix on a summer evening in West Egg at a lavish party thrown by the mysterious Jay Gatsby. London publishers meeting with New Yorkers; Yorkshire Englishmen hunting for business. Inspired by a line from the classic F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

_1922_

The summer night, the music and crowd, combined with the effects brought on by the two seemingly innocent cocktails persuaded Anthony he needed air that hadn't been infected by the swarm of party goers and their shrill, intoxicated exhalations. Investments. Business.

A favor for his niece's new husband. "Uncle Anthony, you really must come. It'll do you good to get away and it's sure to be…profitable." Matilda's dark eyes and her husband's eager countenance made it impossible for the gentleman farmer to decline.

Now, nearly three weeks after that dinner, Anthony stood watching the *young Englishmen who dotted the scene; all well dressed, all looking a little hungry, and all talking in low, earnest voices to solid and prosperous Americans. Americans, Anthony knew, who were targets for the bait his nephew-by-marriage and the nephew's ambitious partners offered in the lucrative insurance and investment venture. He'd invested and, as he saw it, the contribution gave the group the necessary credibility to mount the expedition for foreign acceptance and capital. Soon, Anthony planned to return home; the eventual departure brought a smile and a quiet sigh.

A light giggle disrupted his thoughts and Anthony turned, felt a feather touch at his elbow, and saw the glimmer in the bright young female's eyes looking up at him.

"I beg your pardon," he said, bowing slightly.

She delighted in his accent and manners, tried to catch his jacket sleeve before he escaped her grasp with long, purposeful strides and then he stood once more near the bright, clean swimming pool and surrounding fountain and lights, his ears assaulted by the jovial noise from the orchestra and his eyes unable to avoid the sensuous, then frenzied modern dance movements of the youthful generation in attendance.

Dodging another group of scantily clad dancers and tuxedoed undergraduates, the tall English gentleman strode to the edge of the night. He stopped when he heard the distant crush of waves on the shore and turned back to observe the chaos of the group, grateful a tranquil and remote area remained on the vast property.

"Why did I say yes?" He whispered the words aloud to himself, but turned when he heard a quiet chuckle.

"Not enjoying the party, old sport?"

Before Anthony could make out the man's features in the shadows from the party lights, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Anthony gave an apologetic smile, pained though it was.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Quite all right. I don't enjoy them either." The perfect smile put Anthony at ease and then the young chap held out his left hand to Anthony. "Gatsby."

Tilting his chin, Anthony angled his gaze to study the man more closely. "Anthony Strallan."

"Jay Gatsby. You're English."

"Yes."

"Studied over there for a while. Oxford."

"Cambridge."

Gatsby smiled again. The effect was practiced, Anthony knew, but he liked the man immediately. Gatsby nodded, subtly, at Anthony. "The war?"

Anthony glanced at the sling, barely perceptible in the darkness as the two looked out together towards the starlit crests.

"Interrupted or destroyed everything it seems," Gatsby said.

Anthony thought of his botched proposal so long ago, followed by the inevitable image of Edith before he walked away from her, more than two years ago.

Gatsby faced him, paused. "A woman?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You're distracted. Before I spoke you seemed to be wondering why you were even here, but you also seem—now as I'm observing—lost. A memory. I know the feeling."

"The war…it did, as you say, interrupt and destroy," Anthony conceded.

"Is she here—in America—or—?"

"No, no. She's English—in London, I believe."

"Ah."

The great silence settled. Each man consumed by his own thoughts, the obscure echoes of the late-staying guests growing more distant.

"Daisy." Gatsby spoke the name, a delicate placing of the past between them.

"Edith…Lady Edith Crawley."

"Hmm." Gatsby absorbed the name for a moment. To Anthony, the apparent consideration of it took quite some time. Then, Gatsby stared at him. "Is there only one?"

"Yes," Anthony answered, his heart speaking over the logic of the question. "Yes, there's only her."

"Not what I meant, old sport. I've a feeling that's not a common name."

"I shouldn't think so, no."

"I thought you said she was in London."

"Yes, she's apparently working there—for a newspaper. She's a…quite a marvelous writer."

Gatsby's perfect smile materialized again. "I'm certain she is, old sport. But she isn't in London. If there's only one Lady Edith Crawley, then she's much closer than you think." Gatsby turned them both around, gently, and held out his arm to encompass the entirety of his estate and the gathering upon it. "Anyone who is anyone is here tonight—and that includes a newspaper set from New York. They happen to be working towards penning a deal with a London group in the near future to create a mass publication to be consumed on both sides of the ocean. I know because I invited them all. I keep close tabs on the press, a necessity in my business. Anthony, her name was on the invitation, along with the editor. I assure you they arrived. The question, I suppose, is if they're still here…"

Anthony gulped. The spotlights shone in his eyes as he appraised the situation that he'd never imagined.

"I understand if it's not the right time. These things require…perfection in the preparation for the moment." Gatsby visibly fidgeted then, his own yearnings evident as Anthony tried to focus. "I know if she were there, I'd do anything to bring back…"

"I'm not good for her, not the right man."

"You are the only man—the right man—because no one else can love her the way you do…"

* * *

_A/N:__A short intro to a brief story, I think.__The scene and story are inspired by F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, long a favorite of mine.__The * denotes a line taken directly from the classic novel and only mildly amended for the description rather than Nick Carraway's narration._

_Apologies for my lengthy absence—a combination of real life and deadline-driven work I have been unable to put aside.__I promise more postings soon on my in-progress stories, with All the Difference being next. _

_I'll be catching up on reviewing the recent stories posted and the new authors as well—exciting and very welcome to see—as soon as I can!__Thank you, spottedhorse, for your enthusiastic support and encouragement to the fandom with the challenge! __J_


	2. Chapter 2

_Apologies for the delay on this story!__I've been consumed (née obsessed) with The Present.__Please forgive the neglect.__Thank you all so much for the reviews! What wonderful encouragement and I very much appreciate it! I hope you enjoy this update and that you let me know what you think._

_*denotes lines taken from the novel, The Great Gatsby.__I own none of these characters and give Julian Fellowes credit for the borrowed Downton characters and, of course, Gatsby and Wolfsheim belong to Scott Fitzgerald. _

* * *

Anthony stared into the kaleidoscope of color and movement.

"Would you like me to have her located among the guests?" Gatsby suggested. "It would only take a few minutes. I could give you some privacy in m—"

Anthony turned to him, shaking his head, and then completed the turn all the way back to the ocean and the green, blinking light in the blackness. "No, thank you, but no."

Jay Gatsby stood beside him, still, now facing the opposing shore, too. "Daisy's there."

"I'm sorry?"

"Daisy Buchanan. The green light just there. That's the end of her dock."

Anthony waited.

"The war took me away from her and she married someone else. I've been working ever since to make things right again—the money, the home, everything perfect for her."

The gentleman chose not to say anything, witnessed the younger man in a trance of some sort and feared interrupting the dream.

"I come out here and know she's just there, within reach now, and," he abruptly faced Anthony, "and know that it's only a matter of time before we meet again. I'm making sure though that everything's…perfect…as it should be."

Anthony hid his disbelief at the man's words, the impossible romance he seemed to believe was right in front of him and the idea of reclaiming a woman who had already chosen and married someone else. He offered only a quiet, "I'm sure Edith, too, has found someone else by now."

"You're not going to give up? You do know there's only one? Even if she has, like Daisy, it's a mistake that can be fixed—it can all be fixed, Anthony."

Fearing he offended his host, Anthony said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Gatsby, I really must be going."

In an instant, Gatsby smiled, the host donning again the precise manners required rather than the dream revisited. "Of course. I'll walk back with you. You're here with others?"

Anthony explained the investment business his niece's husband began, the brief history of it, and his hopes for its growth in the modern technological age. By the time he finished, they reached the white-sparkling fountains, the glittering rhythmic couples parading in dance around the pool, and the surrounding tables of socializing elites and ambitious no-names enjoying the catered food and server-shuttled trays of exotic cocktails.

"Perhaps I could send an invitation to her on your behalf, old sport? I'd be glad to host—tea here at my house? I'd give you all the privacy you needed."

Anthony struggled to put words to all of the reasons why he shouldn't. Edith's moved on with her life; she never needed him; it would only hurt her to see him; no explanation he could give would ever be good enough and all of it would be to what end? _He _would never be good enough; therefore, seeing her, no matter the rationalization, was out of the question. "No, no. I don't think that's a good idea."

Gatsby thought on the older gentleman's reluctance. "At least have lunch with me? To talk again, please, I insist."

"Yes, I think I could manage. The young men have," he glanced and spotted his nephew deeply engaged in conversation and turned back to his host, "I'm sure, made appointments that will keep them occupied and my requirement is minimal."

"Where are you staying? I can come by and pick you up in my car."

The sense of being displaced by the smile overwhelmed, but Anthony found himself nodding. "The Waldorf Astoria, but I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"No trouble at all. I'm taking a neighbor to lunch tomorrow—we could pick you up and you could join us. Do you know Nick Carraway?"

"No, I don't."

"Nick's working in bonds…"

* * *

"Michael, I'm exhausted. Let's just go, please."

"Of course, darling, I just need to write this down—where the hell's my pen?" Michael dug in his shirt pocket beneath his jacket.

Edith reached to straighten his lapel, ruffled from the dancing and drinking and carousing they'd done since they'd arrived more than two hours before, but as she angled to look up at him again and speak, her eyes fell on the distant, graceful figure of white-tie and black-sling adorned Sir Anthony Strallan. She stared, to be certain.

"Here it is! Blast—darling, are you all right?" Michael leaned down in front of her, a light touch at her elbow. "Edith? You look as though you've seen a ghost." He turned to look in the direction she faced, her mouth still agape.

Edith instinctively pulled away from him, her mouth closing and then opening again, her eyes searching for the exit. "Let's go. I need to leave—"

"I just need Charles's number—" Michael reached for her, but she was too fast. "You go. I'll be right there."

"I'll wait for you at the car then," she called over her shoulder, hurrying towards the entrance to the great estate.

As Charles slowly dictated his number, Michael studied the crowd in the direction Edith had gazed. No one in view that he recognized. Perhaps she simply panicked at a familiar-looking face? Then, the group of English gentlemen Michael had met earlier laughed together—a rather loud clap of noise from the intoxicated Americans with them—said their good-nights and exchanged handshakes, but as the company broke apart Michael saw the ghost that had frozen and paled his mistress: the height, the sling, the piercing blue eyes and haunted countenance visible even at a distance. "Oh God." The mangled words left his mouth before he could register the shock.

"Sorry?" Charles, the young editor from the New York connection, hesitated and looked to where Michael's attention caught. "What is it?"

"No, no," Michael said. He pointed back to the paper. "So sorry. Go ahead, please." As Charles began again, Michael's agitation caused him to glance again at the group, but only saw the gentleman's back as they all departed together.

As soon as he shook Charles's hand and wished the others a good night, Michael practically ran to where Edith would be waiting near the makeshift car park on the edge of the estate. Amidst the taxis and chauffeur-driven vehicles, Michael searched. He finally found her; Edith stood in the shadows of the trimmed trees and darkness at the edge of the drive. He waved, but she didn't notice. When he reached her, she remained oblivious.

"Darling, are you all right?"

Edith jumped. "Y-yes."

As he put his arm around her, Michael felt her quivering. "You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm fine." Her anxious stare lingered on the distant cars, slow in taking their leave out of the drive as traffic increased.

"Did you see someone you knew or something?"

"No."

Michael studied her in the lights that peeked over the estate's walls and gate. He chose not to push it, but he also knew…Edith had never lied to him before.

Guiding Edith and weaving through the parked and moving cars, Michael led her inside of theirs and they joined the drunken caravan of the polished and indiscreet. *Fifty feet from the door a dozen headlights illuminated a bizarre and tumultuous scene. In the ditch beside the road, right side up, but violently shorn of one wheel, rested a new coupe which had left Gatsby's drive not two minutes before.

"We need to get out of here," Michael huffed.

As they passed, Edith stared out the window surveying the scene—looking for any sign of the man from Locksley…and finding nothing.

"Why isn't anyone helping?" she asked.

"No one cares," Michael muttered.

"It's all a bit unsettling, isn't it?" Edith's dark eyes continued gazing out the window at the accident scene, the inebriated end of the evening marked with flirtations and shallow deals with men she barely knew and certainly didn't trust.

Michael looked past her into the confusion of the smashed crowd and cars. "What is?"

"This place…"

* * *

Anthony Strallan, having received the official Gatsby invitation to lunch that morning from the hotel messenger, stood in the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria studying a painting when the clock signaled 11:57am. With time to spare, Anthony walked to the front doors of the hotel, allowed a young and eager doorman to open one and strode into the day.

*A rich cream color Rolls Royce, bright with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with triumphant hat-boxes and supper-boxes and tool-boxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of windshields that mirrored a dozen suns, stopped just in front of him at the curb. Two men sat in the front seats and, after parking, both immediately stepped out to greet the Englishman. One man, the dark-haired of the two, appeared a bit slow as though stunned by a recent turn of events. Gatsby himself, clad in caramel-colored suit, seemed nearly jovial.

"Sir Anthony Strallan, this is Nick Carraway," Gatsby said. "Nick, this is Sir Anthony Strallan."

Nick Carraway offered his left hand. "How do you do, Sir?"

"Very well, thank you. And you?" Anthony replied in kind, touched by Nick's awareness of his injury rather than succumbing to the typical and habitual reach of the more thoughtless men he'd met since the war.

"Well, thank you."

Nick and Gatsby exchanged brief looks between each other and the vehicle.

"I'm happy to take the back," Nick replied. "Sir Anthony, please." He gestured to the front seat beside Jay.

"Anthony is fine—no need for the title. And thank you. You're very kind."

"Not at all."

Gatsby ignited the engine, noticed Anthony's admiration of the vehicle—his blue eyes captivated by the machine—and, as they drove, regaled him with the details of the Rolls and its custom details of origin; in between the details, Gatsby also answered Anthony's mechanical questions as best he could, with Nick sitting and staring, in awe of the older gentleman's knowledge of the brand, materials, history, and capabilities.

Within minutes, they reached their destination. Anthony hesitated, took one last look at the car.

"A beauty, isn't she, old sport?"

"Gorgeous, yes." Anthony tore himself away, saw that Jay held the door for him, and hurried to the entry of the restaurant.

Through another door and down a staircase and the party of three found themselves in a darkened cellar of a room, crowded and smoky. Anthony squinted to see, and, like Nick, found himself *blinking away the brightness of the day. Anthony coughed.

"Are you all right?" Nick asked.

The two saw that Gatsby had quickly located an acquaintance across the room. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you."

"You don't smoke?"

"No, only occasionally," Anthony answered.

The acquaintance strode over with Gatsby. "Nick, Anthony—this is Meyer Wolfsheim."

The men greeted each other with handshakes, Meyer a bit late with his left-hand, but grinning and friendly nonetheless.

"Pleasure to meet you," Anthony said.

"You're English," Meyer said.

"Yes, indeed."

"Ah." Meyer eyed him, curious and intense. "Do you speculate or…participate in risk at all, Anthony?"

Gatsby opened his mouth to intervene.

Anthony, though already feeling a bit uneasy in the darkened, if somewhat foreboding atmosphere, swallowed and politely answered first. "No, not really, except perhaps on the latest technology—even then, I'm quite…particular."

"We should sit," Gatsby said, encouraging a segue.

Wolfsheim waved his hand, gestured to his table. * "This is a nice restaurant here…but I like across the street better!"

Anthony's eyes swept the restaurant. Intimate conversations. Suckled cigarettes. Gulped whiskey. Shadowy leers. This was not a place Anthony would have frequented on his own, and he found his shoulders tensing and neck stiff as he gauged the patrons nearby. Wolfsheim chattered and Gatsby and Nick ordered highballs.

"Anthony, what brings you to New York?"

"My niece's husband, Paul, is seeking investment capital."

"Best place to be right now," Nick said.

"Yes, yes it certainly is," Meyer agreed. "You're in bonds, is that right?"

The drinks and food Mr. Wolfsheim ordered on their behalf arrived, and the men sat in silence, save for the occasional comment regarding the food or the baseball standings. Anthony noted the quiet conversation between Gatsby and Nick, a few lines of assurance and, then, Gatsby unexpectedly left them alone at the table.

*"He has to telephone," said Mr. Wolfsheim, following him with his eyes. Simultaneously, Nick and Anthony noticed Meyer's peculiar wardrobe accoutrement, their two sets of eyes lighting upon the cuff buttons at once. Wolfsheim flashed a proud grin. "Finest specimens of human molars."

Anthony felt his insides turn, forced his eyes elsewhere in an effort to attend and maintain his focus on the present. Nick glimpsed the sudden cold sweat in the humid atmosphere, the Englishman's pale complexion an even starker white, and nudged Anthony's as-yet-untouched highball towards him. With a quivering hand, Anthony gripped the glass and took a drink—a slow and purposeful gulp held for a moment before he felt the sear all the way down his throat. He set it down again.

Nick leaned towards him. "Anthony, are you all right?"

"Yes. So sorry—just—"

Wolfsheim muttered an apology to Anthony as he chased the last bit of his lunch with another and final gulp of his drink. He began again until something else caught his attention. "Excuse me, please. I've business with a man who just arrived." The bead-like, tiny eyes narrowed in the darkness and he looked pointedly at Anthony. "An English gent, though not quite like you, but I've a little business with him just now. Excuse me again, please."

Nick and Anthony observed as Meyer Wolfsheim lifted his chin and large nose in salutation to a taller, brown-haired man whose charming smile gave way to watery grief upon seeing the older, Jewish man.

"You don't know him, do you?" Nick asked.

Anthony squinted. "No, I don't think so."

Gatsby returned and sat down, glanced about the room in search of his now-absent friend. "Oh. Anthony, do you know him? The man with Meyer?"

"No, I'm sorry," Anthony replied, bereft of why he might recognize another Englishman visiting the country.

"I believe his name is Michael Gregson; he's Lady Edith Crawley's editor." Gatsby knew the words hit their mark.

Anthony's eyes fixed on the pair across the room. "How does Mr. Wolfsheim know him, I wonder? If they've only been in the city a short time? Is he a newspaperman like Mr. Gregson?"

Gatsby smiled. *"He's a gambler." Gatsby hesitated, then added coolly: "He's the man who fixed the World's Series back in 1919."

Even in Yorkshire—and even though cricket was the dominant sport in his native country, Anthony Strallan read enough to know the full weight of the words Gatsby uttered and understood and mirrored the astonishment that Nick Carraway exhibited across the table from him. Anthony looked again into the shadows where Wolfsheim and Gregson stood, tried to see if Edith was nearby.

"Lady Edith Crawley's editor, you say?"

"Yes, old sport. He was with her at the party last night."

"What business would he possibly have with Mr. Wolfsheim?"

Gatsby assessed the situation with a slight nod. "Appears he may have lost a wager…"

Anthony and Nick turned at that point to see Gregson glaring at Wolfsheim and then both men leave together, with Gregson reluctantly following Meyer's come-hither direction, the cuff buttons of human molars flashing…


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you, always, for reading and reviewing. I do hope you're enjoying it thus far.

In honor of Daisy's perfect line: "Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it." Happy Summer Solstice!

As previously noted, the * indicates a line taken from the novel.

* * *

Anthony tolerated the heat as he sat in the tiny offices of a small firm near Central Park. He stared out the window into the bustling movements of pedestrians fighting the haze of the summer morning, the green of the park trees and landscape ushering thoughts of home and the business of Locksley, but those thoughts were interrupted with flashes of Edith and the man Gatsby pointed out at luncheon two days ago, Michael Gregson.

"Uncle? Uncle, we're ready to leave?"

The distracted gentleman turned when Paul touched his shoulder. "Yes—sorry. Just a bit preoccupied. What is it?"

The others they'd met with were already standing, impatience in their collective countenance.

Paul smiled, patient despite his slight embarrassment at Anthony's lack of attention. "It's time to go, Sir."

"Of course," Anthony said, standing and dwarfing the younger man. "Of course. Morning, gentlemen."

As they walked out, the young hawker of papers at the corner waved and shouted, confronted the pair attempting to walk past.

"You didn't purchase a paper?" Anthony asked his nephew.

"No, Sir, not yet this morning," Paul said. The younger man, baby-faced in his appearance and naïve personality, a slick coat of grease smoothing his dark hair to his head, and intelligent green eyes darting this way and that as they stood in the sunlight.

"My dear young chap—you must read. You're entering a business in which you must know every nuance of the markets, particularly given the volatility of stocks, of credit, of technology. I browsed the _Herald _before we left this morning; let's see the financial news, yes?" Anthony pulled from his pocket a bill rather than coins. He turned to the young newspaper boy. _"__Barron's._ Two copies of _The Wall Street Journal_ and a copy of the _Times_, please."

The paperboy obliged them with an eager grin and the men took a cab. Paul read eagerly, suddenly more aware of his ignorance given his uncle's tutelage, and glanced at the gentleman as he took in the view of the city.

"Paul?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Any mention of the editor you met the other night?"

"A Mr. Gregory? In the papers, Sir?"

"Michael Gregson. Yes, in the papers," Anthony answered, sober and quiet.

Paul continued turning page after page, his eyes lighting on names in the various columns. "Not from what I can tell, Sir, no."

"Thank you," Anthony breathed.

* * *

Stewart greeted the two at the curb, listened as Paul made his excuses and walked away towards a telephone.

"Did it go well, Sir?"

"Yes, I'm sure it did, for at least one of us."

Walking into the Waldorf-Astoria, Anthony and Stewart exchanged news regarding Paul and the pending transactions, the growth of the business, and the general state of the city as it grew in stature and wealth, comparing it to London and various European capitals.

"Mr. Strallan!"

Anthony and Stewart turned to see the uniformed desk clerk calling to him across the Waldorf's lobby with a raised hand that held an envelope. "Mr. Strallan—!"

When the young man reached them, Stewart wasted no time. "Sir is the title, not mister."

Anthony shook his head. "Not necessary," he whispered discreetly to Stewart. "Not over here."

The young clerk, out of breath, but smiling at having recognized the gentleman and achieved his objective, said, "A message arrived for you just now, Sir."

"Thank you," Anthony said, taking the envelope and reading Gatsby's pen. With a practiced motion, he opened the letter and found nothing but a dinner invitation for tomorrow night's soiree at the Gatsby residence. The handwritten portion at the postscript simply said, _Daisy will be here and I'd like you to meet her_.

The luncheon when last he'd left Gatsby was three days prior. The prospect of seeing him again, of enduring another party brought dread.

"Are you all right, Sir?" Stewart prompted.

"Yes, yes, just…well, I suppose I should go." Anthony glanced around the lobby, the sweltering afternoon air weighing on everything. "Stewart, any word yet of Mr. Gregson?"

"No, Sir—and no mention of him in the papers either."

"And…Lady Edith—her whereabouts?"

"Only the upcoming contract signing; the owner of _The Sketch, _William Ingram,travelled with her and Gregson. Nothing amiss reported to police regarding Mr. Wolfsheim or Gregson, Sir. It's as though he disappeared, but no one seems to notice."

"Yes, it's quite strange; I saw the article yesterday touting the deal. All seemed fine."

The two walked towards the lift in silence, Anthony's eyes lost in the surroundings of the luxury hotel. As the lift climbed, Anthony spoke softly, "I've yet another appointment this afternoon with Paul and two contacts he's made here. We leave for England in six days—whether that young man has finished his business or not, I'm going."

"Yes, Sir. You've certainly done enough for the seeding of the business."

Stewart opened the door to their room and Anthony followed, immediately loosening his tie. "It's too hot here…"

* * *

Anthony arrived early to the party, forgoing Stewart's presence as he felt he'd already asked enough of his valet while he'd been here, and realized that no one arrived prematurely to these sorts of parties; the butler greeted him with a cocked brow and questioning stare, but Jay Gatsby was already descending the stairs. The butler took Anthony's hat and disappeared.

"Anthony—so glad you could make it, old sport. The other guests will be arriving shortly."

"Sorry if I'm early, I'm afraid my punctuality this time is a detriment; I'd no intention of disrupting the preparations."

The two weaved through the caterers, working as bees swerving and veering in all directions, as they pruned and placed, designed and decorated, every dish and tray and glass, each table and chair and place setting perfect for a mere few minutes before the catastrophe of carelessness crossed the threshold of the vast estate.

While the minutes chimed and a distant piano played, Gatsby showed Anthony around, stopping occasionally to explain photographs or décor, bragging—though not haughtily—about the origins, the expense, the grandeur he'd surrounded himself with in the magnificence of the manor. The two walked out on the grand balcony and observed the initial chaos of the orchestra tuning and the feast being laid out on the tables below.

"Are you a bit nervous?" Anthony asked, having noticed the slight fidget to the man's otherwise smooth and controlled movements.

A smile broke through, a genuine gleam. "Yes, I am, old sport. But I can see it—us together—and we're almost there and that gives me hope." Gatsby nervously shifted his weight, stared down at his polished shoes and then out at the lights and the night and the growing crowd below as guests arrived and began playing their part in his progressively tangible dream awakening and springing to life before his eyes. "Anthony, I should let you know, too, that Lady Edith may be here this evening as well."

Anthony only stared at him, half in fear and half in hope of his next words. When no words came, Anthony gave a slight nod. "Thank you for the warning."

"There's other news, but—"

"I need not know. It's better this way," Anthony implored.

Gatsby recognized the expression, smiled harmlessly, and led Anthony by the elbow. "Very well. Daisy and I met the other afternoon at Nick's place—just there." He pointed into the darkness, the tiny cottage obscured by trees. "Like we'd never been apart. It's happening now; we'll be together soon. Just a few more discretionary items to resolve. I'd like you to meet her. She and her husband will be arriving very soon."

Anthony studied Gatsby in the bright fair-like lights of the estate; the composed smile didn't reflect at all the absurdity of the phrase 'discretionary items' he'd just uttered. "A divorce is still required? A costly, perhaps quite lengthy one, yes? Painful, too? Are there children? Surely—"

Gatsby merely shook his head. "Shouldn't take long. I've just as much money and we can do whatever we wish once we're together."

The pair of men stopped near the gates, greeted Nick Carraway, and then saw the newly-arrived couple. Tom Buchanan stood almost as tall as Anthony, a slender mustache and slicked hair, a taut frame of muscle and action potential bursting beneath his tuxedo jacket. Daisy Buchanan, slender and alabaster, all delicate butterfly attention and melodic voice, relinquished the tie to her husband and linked her fragile arm in Jay's.

"Daisy Buchanan, I'd like you to meet Sir Anthony Strallan. Sir Anthony, this is Daisy Buchanan and her husband Tom Buchanan, the polo player." The young woman extended her graceful hand and Anthony tenderly took it in his and kissed it, inhaling the flowery scent of her—jasmine and…

"Pleasure to meet you, Sir Anthony," she said.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Buchanan," Anthony said, his blue eyes staring into hers, captured for a moment by her voice before he let go and stepped back involuntarily, a moment of inelegance in escaping her sway.

Anthony smiled politely even as Tom shook his hand, grumbling, "I'd rather not be the polo player."*

The Englishman observed them then as the Buchanans split, one consumed by Jay and the other captivated by the array of attendees, dancers and gay conversationalists, all drinking and laughing. Anthony and Nick watched as Daisy and Jay disappeared. While Tom proved easy to read—a man clearly in search of whatever prime he'd passed long ago—Daisy seemed at once delightful and dangerous, a seductive Siren exhibiting the signs of love with an underlying tenacity and fierceness in her gentle eyes that Anthony knew Jay didn't see at all. Even, in speaking with Nick as the two strolled and sipped champagne, mingling with Jordan Baker and others, Nick—Daisy's own cousin—failed to see the darkness, a vanity, that nebulous desperation for…something, Anthony knew not what, behind the bright glare of her.

The gentleman watched, too, as Paul arrived with the same group of hungry brokers and huntsman—all uninvited guests, like everyone else it seemed—from York as before, nodded in his direction once or twice as they crossed paths.

Put on warning, however, and aside from some small chatting to Nick and a few other Americans, Anthony remained aloof from the party-goers and alerted to every woman with reddish-blonde hair and petite frame…

* * *

Edith vomited again. What she thought might end by luncheon, kept her off-balance and nauseated throughout the day: a relentless swirling in her stomach that no amount of water or powder seemed to soothe. She trembled as she walked back to her bed and pressed a cool, damp cloth to her forehead. Exhausted from the illness, Edith picked up the telegram from Michael.

_Edith—Unexpected emergency with Lizzy. Will send word soon.__I'm sorry for everything.__I love you.__Michael._

None of it made sense. Lizzy apparently didn't even know him anymore, so why would Michael suddenly need to rescue her in the asylum? Edith had not heard from him in four days, not since he'd gone—he said—to meet with a potential associate; she'd considered the police, but knew that all must be fine. Michael was on a ship back and everything was fine—except for Edith, who couldn't seem to recover from this stomach illness.

Now, breathing deeply to assuage the queasy feeling inside, talking quietly to reassure herself of her own physical well-being, she donned her flapper dress and heels, a beautiful silk of burgundy color, and freshened up before meeting Mr. Ingram and his wife in the Plaza's lobby.

"Edith, you look piqued, dear," Mrs. Ingram said, frowning.

"Edith, are you certain you're feeling up to this—it is a party after all?" Mr. Ingram reminded her. "It's business and you've more than done your part, which, of course, I can't quite say for Michael—"

"Darling, it couldn't be helped in Michael's case. You know he'd be here if he could."

"Yes, yes, of course, you're right. Edith?"

Edith smiled, felt a slight settling in her abdomen and hoped the upset was behind her. "Of course, Mr. Ingram. Let's go and have a wonderful time, get this contract agreed upon and celebrate, all right?"

The man of middling age and stern disposition smiled curtly and gestured for her to go ahead of him and his wife…

* * *

The orchestra was winding down, or at least in a lull from the full swing of earlier, and Edith found herself pushing through riled, drunken, and raucous dancers, oblivious to her greenish-pale visage, the rather evident and alarming clammy coldness that caused her to sweat and chill at the same time. She hurried as best she could, inquired from a server as to the nearest water closet—a bath room or facility as the young man needed clarification—and practically ran inside and down the corridor, panic and humiliation filling her as she became ill in her host's home…

* * *

Anthony saw the couple return—the questions from Tom as Daisy and Jay tried to explain away their absence. He receded into the home, aware that his hat was hung somewhere inside, but utterly bemused as to where amidst the crowd and noise; given the lateness of the hour and Anthony's discretion and desire to not become involved in the affairs, he would offer his apologies later to Gatsby regarding his abrupt leave-taking. Lost then, he turned down one golden-gilded corridor and into another, searching for the foyer, but, as he started the other direction to return back, thought he heard someone crying. Looking around, seeing that no one else was nearby, he walked to the nearest door and listened. Yes, crying, sobbing that echoed from inside the room, a woman clearly distressed on the other side of the door.

He knocked gently. "Are you all right, my dear?"

No answer came, but the sobs ceased.

"I'm terribly sorry; I heard you crying and worried you might need—"

The door was flung open. Staring up at him in a mixture of shock and tears and pale fury, holding her middle with one hand and the door with the other, stood a quite-vulnerable Lady Edith Crawley. Anthony saw the redness of her cheeks contrast sharply with the pallor of her skin and she opened her mouth, but her eyes drifted, lost focus for a moment, and rolled, the sight of Anthony blackening before she crumpled in front of him—

"Lady Edith—!"


	4. Chapter 4

Edith lay within a distant bedroom on the uppermost floor of the mansion, away from the still-gathered-but-diminished, intoxicated crowd, and Anthony Strallan and Jay Gatsby waited just outside the door. The initial group that came at Anthony's insistence, when he tried to carry Edith as best he could, stooping and supporting her weight with his good arm, had scattered again back to their respective functions as the party wound down. Now, in the brightly lit hall, Anthony paced in quiet and short, thoughtful strides; Gatsby watched, patient and genuinely concerned.

Jay had wasted no time in contacting his own personal physician: a middle-aged gentleman with white and wispy hair, deep-set eyes and thin lips, with a hawkish nose, and a keen intellect evident from his brisk and business-like manners. Discreet in every way possible, he'd followed Gatsby without a word as the two ascended the stairs and didn't speak to the two again until he re-emerged from the bedroom where Edith lay unconscious for just more than a half-hour before the doctor's urgent appearance.

"She's…" The doctor hesitated, weighing his words. Gatsby and Anthony stared, somber and anxious. "There's no illness; no contagion apparent." The measuring again, the silence. "It appears Lady Edith is pregnant; has anyone contacted her husband? Is he downstairs?"

The air between the three men stilled.

Anthony's mouth opened and then closed just as suddenly. Gatsby broke in for him. "We'll be in touch, Doctor. Is everything else all right?"

"Yes, yes. She needs rest and some food and water, if she can hold it down. Sometimes the sickness subsides quickly and sometimes it takes a bit longer. She mentioned it's been coming and going over the past few weeks; it certainly intensified today, however—"

"The baby?" Anthony asked, his voice breaking.

"I can't imagine any long-term effects; as I said, the symptoms should subside over the course of the remainder of the pregnancy. She seemed otherwise healthy, I think." The doctor buckled his medical bag, slipped a paper into Gatsby's hand, and bid all a good night with a final direction to call if something should change.

Gatsby put his hand on Anthony's arm. "Are you all right, old sport?"

Anthony lifted his head, his eyes finally focusing on his host. "Yes…just…"

"Perhaps a brandy?"

"Yes, thank you."

Jay followed the path the doctor had taken, down the hall and around a corner. Anthony heard and felt nothing but the sound of his own heart, his mind replaying the vision of Edith's pained expression the last he saw her at the altar and then just before her unceremonious passing out a short while ago. So concentrated was his attention on those thoughts that when Gatsby returned he had to push the glass in Anthony's hand himself.

"Steady," Gatsby nodded.

Despite his manners and perfected self-control, and with all sense of pretention gone, Anthony gulped the liquid fire and took a deep breath.

"Would you like to speak to her alone?"

"Wh—what would I say?" Anthony shook his head. "What can I possibly say to make things—different or better? She's obviously moved on…given the…circumstance."

Gatsby leveled his gaze on the baronet. "Anthony—she's pregnant. And she's not married." There was a long pause then and Anthony, disconcerted by it, stared intently at him. "And Gregson's not coming back, old sport."

The meaning behind those few words hung between them.

"He's ruined."

The offering of clarification still somehow lacked full disclosure. Anthony thought then on the consequences: Edith, her illegitimate child, her title, her family, and the disgrace from rumors and gossip.

Gatsby saw the calculating, the resolutions forming, dispersing, and reforming in Anthony's clouded blue eyes. "Shall I order some tea for her and you two can…talk?"

Anthony sighed. "If we…talk…I only wish to explain myself; I fear I hurt her immeasurably, that she doesn't understand I did it for her own well-being…and now…"

"But you do still love her."

"Oh yes. I've never stopped, not since…1914. I only know that truth. Perhaps if Gregson returns, well…I've no wish to hurt her again."

"He won't—return, that is—at least, I can't imagine it now given his loss of means. But you can save her—now that you know, Anthony, you can save her…make things right, the way they were always meant to be."

"To what end?" Anthony said, struggling with the complexity. "Her family, her own feelings for me—if there ever were any—died long ago—"

Gatsby smiled that perfect smile—understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on _you_ with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.* And Anthony found himself believing that, yes, in fact, he _should _go in and, if she was willing, have tea with Lady Edith Crawley.

Before he could change his mind or reconsider or protest to Jay, the handsome host's smile disappeared. "She came with the Ingrams. I'll speak with them. Excuse me, please, old sport." With that, Gatsby turned on his heel, and vanished…

* * *

The curtain flared open against the moonlight, and the remote revelry dissolved in the night…no longer heard at all as Gatsby's staff began to gently discourage the more determined party attendees from staying longer than necessary, politely ushering them to the exit before the inebriated guests realized their place—and then, distracted, called hither and there for their vehicles, lamented the loss of keys, but somehow…perhaps long minutes afterwards…found a way of dispatch and left for another festive gathering in the still-early hours of morning…

Edith's eyes went from the clock at the night table, which registered just after one a.m., to the elaborate tea service that shone in the dim light of the lamps on either side of the bed. She lay with her back to him, an occasional sniffle, muffled so that he could barely hear her.

There were no words. No questions. The silence began to wear away though as Anthony's resolve unraveled, yielded to Edith's muted determination.

"I'm…very sorry," he whispered.

Edith shifted beneath the covers, a huff of indignation. "For what?" Her voice was thick with emotion, but hard—metallic.

Anthony thought on the past years, the two grave mistakes of walking away from her, and said softly, "Everything."

What Edith often dreamt, if she were to ever see Anthony Strallan again, did not resemble this scene at all. Fury. Screams—better yet, a well-aimed, decisive and violent hurling of just the right words to pierce and gut him, leaving him with all of the pain she'd felt as he'd walked up the aisle—without her. She rolled, gingerly, to face him, and sat up in the bed.

"Why are you here? In America, Anthony, why—of all places—are you here at Mr. Gatsby's? I saw you the other night here, too—why?"

"Business. My niece's husband is seeking clients and he wished to have me along for my…"

"Expertise. No need to sound apologetic, Anthony, you were always brilliant at business."

Anthony blushed, grimaced, unable to face her. It was not a kind look she gave him, but matter-of-fact.

"What do you want, Anthony? Why did you come find me?"

"I assure you I wasn't—not on purpose. I didn't mean to bother you and was avoiding you so as to prevent any further pain. I know you could never possibly consider forgiving me, but I heard crying—a lady in distress and couldn't leave her—you—what I mean is—"

"Stop."

Anthony's eyes shot to hers, but she had turned away again to stare at the window. "Wh—"

"I'm pregnant. Michael's child, as I've not been with anyone else. I'm pregnant and he's gone and my writing was just getting started—this deal…my book…" Edith swallowed the sob that threatened, her eyes pools of simultaneous tears and fire as her gaze fell on Anthony again. "I've just summed up my entire life since you left me. Have you nothing to say?"

"I want to help you."

"Help me how? What could you possibly do to help me now?"

When he failed to answer, she lay down again, her back to him. Anthony thought for a long moment. He stood. The tea service sat, still steaming, and he carefully poured her a cup—just as she always preferred it with a dash of milk and two sugars. He walked over to her and, cautious, sat in front of her on the bed, his tall figure blocking out everything save the moonlight through the window which graced his hair with luminous strands of white gold.

"Lady Edith—"

"Don't patronize me with the use of my title, Anthony."

He bowed his head, gave her the cup, which she took.

"Thank you," she whispered. "You remembered."

"One doesn't forget the most delightful afternoons and conversations with one's favorite companion—or how said companion takes her tea."

Edith stared. His comment had not been sheepish at all, but calm and direct as though stating a rather obvious math sum. Anthony's eyes lifted to meet hers.

"Marry me, Edith. I'm leaving in five days. We can marry here or when we return—and I will take full responsibility for the child." The words tumbled out before he'd completely thought them through and Edith sat stunned before him. "I will give you whatever you want or need, whatever the child requires—the very best—"

"Please go."

"Why—"

"Please—just leave me."

Resigned, Anthony stood, and, as he reached for the door, turned suddenly back to her. "I do mean it, Edith. These past years I've been so sorry…for everything. I will marry you; I will take care of you and your baby…if you allow me the honor." When she didn't look at him, Anthony said, "Do be careful and take care, Edith. If you change your mind or need to speak with me, I'm staying at the Waldorf-Astoria." Again, nothing. Anthony shut the door quietly behind him…

* * *

Gatsby stood at the bay windows on the ground floor, staring out onto the now-deserted estate. Anthony came to stand beside him. "Thank you for the help this evening."

"You're welcome. Is there anything else I can do?"

"I don't think so, no," Anthony answered. "Can she stay tonight? I'm not sure what arrangements you've made—"

"Yes, of course," Jay said, nodding. "Would you like a room as well? I can have the staff—"

"No, no, thank you. I'm afraid," Anthony said, closing his eyes and rubbing his temple, "I'm afraid it didn't go nearly as well as your reunion at tea the other day. Please accept my sincere thanks for this evening and your hospitality throughout; I've appreciated your friendship very much during the course of this visit. I must go, however—"

"You won't be back."

Anthony sighed. "Yes, I will _not _be back and I will be leaving in a few days to return home. Edith, I believe, has made her choice and, not surprisingly, it's not me. What I did was unforgiveable and I can't blame her for her feelings and her decisions." Anthony looked out the window, an absent and distant gaze.

"She didn't like it."*

"I'm sorry?"

"Daisy—she didn't like it. She didn't have a good time."

Anthony frowned. "I'm sorry. I'm sure she did; perhaps—"

"No, she didn't." He was silent, and Anthony saw for the first time his unutterable depression. "I feel far away from her."*

Anthony saw this as an opportunity. "Mr. Gatsby—"

"Jay, please."

Gatsby turned to face him, recognized a change in Anthony's entire countenance. "Jay—I pray you're very careful with Mrs. Buchanan, with the plans you have for the two of you."

"Of course, old sport! Of course we will be!" And as suddenly as the depression appeared, it vanished, and that smile materialized.

Anthony leaned closer to him, his expression darker. "Jay, you must be aware that it will not be easy. I fear there's more going on, perhaps, with the two of them that you can't possibly foresee; she loves you, but Jay—five years have passed—nothing's the same as it was—you can't repeat the past."*

"Can't repeat the past?" he cried incredulously. "Why of course you can!"

Anthony studied him, utterly bereft of what to say to such absurd optimism in the face of physics and science and everything he knew of logic and faith and love.

"I'm going to fix everything just the way it was before," he said, nodding determinedly. "She'll see."

"I wish you…the very best, but I pray you're careful, Jay."

Gatsby smiled and that smile would stay with Anthony Strallan for the rest of his life, but haunted him during the entire drive back to the city: along the dark and empty roads between where only the headlights of Gatsby's hired vehicle lit the road in an eerie half-life, through the Valley of Ashes where Doctor Eckleburg's eyes sent a prickle of chill up the back of his neck, and over the steel-girded bridge that separated the Eggs from New York, all the way back to his hotel room at the Waldorf where Stewart was waiting with a drink and listened to Anthony's own story of tea and a reunion and a proposal and of years past and of the third time he walked away from Lady Edith Crawley…

* * *

*denotes lines or passages taken directly from the F. Scott Fitzgerald novel _The Great Gatsby_. I own none of these characters, but love them-except, of course, for the Buchanans ;)

Thank you for reading and reviewing!


	5. Chapter 5

Anthony attended all of the requisite meetings that Paul arranged, covered the mistakes the younger man made in his initial plans and presentations, and he waited. Anthony checked for messages each morning, afternoon, and evening, at the front desk. He heard nothing from Edith; the only message he received was from Jay Gatsby:

_Dear Anthony,_

_She left this morning and said she felt much better and that she would be returning for her belongings and business at her hotel. I knew you would want to know._

_Good luck._

As he reread the message, Anthony thought of Jay's look as he shared his own story of Daisy, the piercing flash of the green light—close, but distant—and he wondered if Tom Buchanan had yet lost his wife to, perhaps, the more romantic, if not deserving, man.

By the morning of his final day, Anthony said his good-byes to Paul—who desperately wished him to stay—counseled the young man on his already-hasty decisions and any future ones he chose to make, paid the lift operator, the bell-hop, and the messengers at the hotel all very handsomely, and departed quietly from the Waldorf to meet his ship at the pier.

As the cab drove them, Stewart glanced at Anthony repeatedly, though in the guise of observing traffic and the passers-by, the weather, and anything else Anthony's window might reveal.

The obvious elephant needed to be acknowledged and the gentleman clenched his jaw. "Are you all right, Stewart?"

"Yes, yes, of course, Sir." A long pause held court then between them. Stewart, the astute and adept former marksman, leveled his gaze and arched a brow. "And you, Sir? Are _you_ all right?"

Anthony didn't say a word, only shook his head slowly as he, too, stared out the window. But he answered Stewart with the brief touch to his collar, the smoothing of his shirt right over his heart, and the lingering then…as though he needed to make certain the muscle behind his breastbone functioned properly…

* * *

Edith studied her own rendering of his name on the envelope. _Anthony_ _Strallan_. She hadn't sent it, of course. Written three days ago—the evening after passing out in his arms—_arm, _she corrected—seeing him stir her tea, hearing his marriage proposal in a stranger's bedroom after her own indiscretion of admitting her affair with Michael, the pregnancy. She'd arrived at her hotel and immediately hid beneath the covers, still feeling ill physically and unable to right herself emotionally—and then picked up a pen. She'd said everything: rage, truth, pain, and…love, too, remembrances of them, of their past that couldn't possibly be repeated. But then as she sealed her words, cast his name in the smooth black ink… Paralysis. Everything was different now. How could he possibly accept her _now_?How could she trust him? So, she'd stared at the letter; she'd stared at it in her hand, as it sat on the night stand, as it perched by the vanity mirror—carried it with her as she paced in the room in her more tense and angry moments, threw it once across the room and watched as it fluttered by the leg of the room's desk chair. Why Anthony? Why now? Surely, if she returned to England, Michael could explain…but could she trust him now? After leaving her, there had been no further word, no telegram, no promises of a return or coming back for her, nothing…

_Anthony_. The proposal—technically, the _second_ one from his lips—echoed.

The envelope slid into her purse just as the bellhop knocked. She went to the door quickly.

"Yes, all of those, please."

"This is…all, Mrs. Crawley?"

He appeared shocked at the mere three bags.

Edith smiled. "Yes, actually. That will be all, thank you."

Looking around the room once more, Edith's fingers clutching the envelope still—she couldn't mail it this late. She passed a rubbish bin, but still white-knuckled the letter with his name.

Edith took the lift downstairs and proceeded to check out of The Plaza hotel a week earlier than expected. The Ingrams' ship would not leave for another three weeks or so, as they chose to celebrate the penned agreement and new business by seeing more of America. She bid them a fond farewell, assured them she was fine—a brief stomach illness was all—and that she had made some other plans to, perhaps, see her grandmother again or relatives nearby, and then she waved as she stepped into a cab. She sat in the back seat a moment as the driver, finally, upon not hearing an address or a direction at all, turned to face her.

"Where to, Miss?"

In the silence that followed, the driver removed the cigarette from his thin lips and stared at her. The entire time in the States flashed in front of her: Michael, the parties, the smoky rooms, the politicization of the business and writing, the brief visit to her grandmother's—should she go back to Martha's now? Anthony's ship had probably already left…and she really had no ticket or anywhere else to go…no plans…nothing…

"Lady, I understand if you need a minute, but I ain't got all day."

"No, no. I'm sorry," she whispered.

When she spoke, the driver smiled and his eyes surveyed her with more patience now. "You ain't from around here—are you headed home? Is your departure this morning from the pier?"

Edith nodded, still unable to quite make up her mind. The sudden lurch of the vehicle forced her body back into the seat and she instinctively touched her middle. She closed her eyes. "Oh God…"

* * *

Edith, out of breath, stopped and looked at the ship now already disembarking against the morning sun's ocean shimmer. Her right hand settled at her stomach as she paused, uncertain what she should do. He'd gone; she'd lost. For a long moment, she witnessed the ship become smaller as its huge, powerful engines engaged and churned, leaving the foaming ocean in its wake. Edith's head bowed, her eyes pressed tightly, abating the tears that threatened.

Turning, she began the walk back to somewhere, some other strange place within the massive city, her watery focus on the ground, the smell of the sea almost too much for her. She began to hurry as she sensed the nausea coming on—

"Edith! Lady Edith!"

Edith turned back towards the bustling dock and pier, covered her mouth, but then gulped and took a deep breath of air. She blinked again, to be certain.

"Edith—wait!"

Anthony Strallan broke and hastened his stride, dashing towards her. She waited until he reached her, hair windblown and astray, eyes bright with hope and such a clear blue she could see herself reflected in them.

"Edith—"

"I thought you were leaving—"

"I thought you—"

They smiled, both taking a moment to recover and feeling so much at once it was impossible to put into words. Anthony glanced back and waved to Stewart, still by a set of luggage meant for the transatlantic journey now begun without them aboard. Edith nodded to Stewart and then she and Anthony stared at one another…

"I didn't hear from you."

"I couldn't think of what to say or do or if I could…trust you."

"I couldn't go this morning, couldn't think beyond your situation. Edith, I can't leave you like this." Anthony saw the slight grimace, the shame at those words and the phrasing he'd used, and he flinched, immediately sought to clarify. "I can't leave _you_, Edith—not again."

"So you stayed…you chose to stay for me?"

"Yes."

The one word spoken with no hesitation brought tentative smiles again and the resolve both so desperately needed.

"I was going to your hotel to find you." Anthony thought of Gatsby's words, his smile of reassurance, and leapt forward. "Edith, I've never stopped loving you; I did what I did—that horrible, unforgivable act—because I was convinced I wasn't the best man for you, that your life would be so much better without me. I did it for you as difficult as that is for you to see, but—"

"I know."

"I loved you—love you still—and know different now and have regretted—what?"

"I know, Anthony."

As he tried to absorb that simple and profound statement, Edith touched his cheek, a fragile swipe of his tear.

"You didn't trust me—us together—or my love for you. I loved you, but didn't know how to…well, so much more was said…and happened during that time…"

Anthony nodded, silent in his astonishment.

Edith, her right hand on her belly, ducked her head for a moment and then stared up at him. "Anthony?"

"Yes, sweet one?"

At the sound of that endearment, her smile broke into shy radiance—and she dared ask: "Will you…despite this being Michael's—"

Anthony touched her lips with his finger. "Will you marry me, Lady Edith Crawley? Here and now? Before we return…home?"

Edith felt herself nodding an affirmative, but she whispered. "Can we please leave now? I'm afraid the aroma is…quite strong and my stom—"

Anthony wasted no time in hailing Stewart with a wave, and then he took Edith by the elbow and led her away.

* * *

Martha Levinson put together a small, lavish—and quite secretive—wedding. While at her estate, Anthony remained under her watchful eye and stood quite-penitent before her when he and Edith first arrived. If Edith felt doubts at all about Anthony's devotion or willingness this time to marry her, they evaporated as he withstood the interrogation and relentless shots fired by her grandmother that first afternoon. He endured it with grace and humility and profuse apologies—and won Martha's approval—again—immediately afterwards. In the time it took to plan and obtain proper licenses, Anthony notified Jay Gatsby of his impending nuptials, invited him to the wedding, and expressed sincere wishes to host Jay should he ever make his way to England; moreover, Jay couldn't attend: business and Daisy kept him and, both it seemed, had become pressing. The message included an open invitation to Gatsby's estate and the postscript indicating that he hoped one day he and Daisy might make it to England and Locksley for a visit. It was, characteristically, hopeful and Anthony smiled as he read it, but the smile was one of sympathy rather than joy. When Edith asked him, he told her everything of his friendship with Mr. Gatsby, and Edith, too, expressed dismay and sadness—predicted, like Anthony, a poignant close to the affair…

Stewart performed the best man duties; Martha served as Edith's matron of honor. Nearly six weeks after his arrival in the United States, Anthony Strallan redeemed all that had happened in the more than two years that had passed. When asked about a honeymoon and offered any place in the world to go, Edith simply replied, "I want to go home." And her answer needed no clarification, for Anthony knew exactly what she meant and wasted no time in purchasing passage in luxury accommodation for England.

Locksley welcomed its new mistress with little fanfare, but plenty of warmth. Mrs. Brandon, the loyal cook, prepared a favorite meal and she and the small staff offered a congratulatory and quiet celebration for the couple upon their arrival that first evening after spending a short time at the Strallan town home in London. When they did arrive at Locksley a gift awaited them in the form of an extravagant tea set engraved with their initials, AS and ES, respectively. The handwritten card expressed congratulations from one Jay Gatsby…

News reached Downton in a long letter from Edith and Anthony, jointly explaining their unexpected reunion in New York and subsequent marriage. In eloquent prose worthy of such a love story detailing romance and forgiveness and with Anthony addressing Robert most directly regarding his respect and feelings for the family and Edith, the Strallans managed to win Cora right away, Mary somewhat later after she learnt of Edith's rather-immediate pregnancy, and Robert…well, he and his mother still—after nearly a month of getting used to the notion—harbored looks of disdain and muttered off to themselves whenever observing the couple. The Strallans secretly loved it. Having married on their own terms and now spending their time readying for the baby, they could not have been happier.

* * *

Anthony Strallan opened the September morning paper and read the headline, read further, turned the pages to find the remainder of the long and winding story of dirty money, bootlegging, and blackmail—of the violent death of Myrtle Wilson by a certain cream-colored, custom-made Rolls Royce automobile...and the subsequent murder of Jay Gatsby by George Wilson in avenging his wife's brutal fatality.

Edith sipped her coffee and peered over his shoulder. "Oh my God—Anthony?"

"Yes, I'm afraid it's true."

Anthony felt his wife lean in near his shoulder and both read the final lines of the article together. There was no mention of Daisy or Tom Buchanan.

"But I thought he loved Daisy Buchanan?"

"He did. It appears they've—the Buchanans, that is—" Anthony turned to the Society section and creased the paper so the photograph of the couple and the caption caught Edith's attention. "Left for Europe—together."

Edith, shaking her head in disbelief, took the seat beside her husband at the breakfast table. "His love didn't seem to matter to her, maybe?"

"I think it did," Anthony said. "But it couldn't change all that had passed. Five years apart…"

The words hung between them as they both considered Daisy and Jay and…

Anthony witnessed the sudden change in her expression. "There are so many differences, sweet one, in our two stories."

"Yes—more than eight years for us—since that first dinner." Edith looked down at her now-protruding belly. "And we certainly haven't recaptured the past given…"

"No, but we are starting again. This time, these years apart, can't be changed, but we can move forward—and we are." Anthony reached and took her hand that rested, as usual, on her middle. "I love you more than I ever thought possible, and I already love this child that is yours and—"

"And the one we will have together…one day?"

Anthony's look mirrored hers: softened, glistening eyes and a smile. "Yes, my sweet one. I very much look forward to it…this life together with you that we've finally begun…"

* * *

_A/N: Thank you for reading and reviewing! I hope you've enjoyed this little digression and mingling with Gatsby and that I've done the characters justice. Thanks again! _


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